“Tonight?” Jason exclaimed. “I’m not ready.”

“A lot of people paid good money to see Maxie Rosenbloom fight, and I’m not going to let them down.” Willie’s voice became smoother. “I tell you what, I’ll throw in another fin.”

“Fin?” Jason asked.

“Five dollars. Can I count on you?” Willie waited for Jason’s reply.

It was a video game, after all. Jason figured he was as ready as he was ever going to be, even if he had the jitters. “I’ll be there.”

Sister Mildred and Maureen looked at Jason expectantly as he hung up the phone. “It’s Willie at the Eureka. One of the fighters got sick at the last minute and can’t make it, so Willie wants me to take his place…tonight.”

“Well, you give him…” Sister Mildred caught herself. “…a long stint in purgatory.”

Maureen’s eyes opened wide in surprise, before she bit the corner of her lip nervously.

Jason went up to one of the men seated at dinner, the one who always held the focus mitts for him and watched him train. “Franklin, they moved up my fight, and I need you to be my corner man tonight.”

“Sure, F-f-father, just let me finish my b-b-b, uh, food.” Franklin started shoveling beans onto his mouth.

“No big rush. I’ve got to change.” Jason patted the man’s shoulder and jogged to the rectory, where he changed into his sweats. Then he realized he hadn’t fitted his mouthpiece yet, and he only had a gray pair of shorts. He’d planned on buying all his necessities next week for his fight. He flew down the stairs to the garage, carrying his gloves, towels, and hand wraps in a duffel, He pulled out in the late Father Milligan’s car, and bounced up the curb onto the lawn so he could drive up to the basement, where Franklin waited for him.

Jason drove to the Eureka Theater, and his stomach was knotted in nervousness.

“Who are you f-f-fighting?” Franklin asked as they pulled up to the venue, and softly whistled at the sight of shiny new cars arriving at the venue.

“Rosenbloom,” Jason replied. “Is that Jewish? Whoever heard of a Jewish boxer?”

“Ah, yeah, Maxie Rosenbloom,” Franklin said when he recognized the name. “The guy’s uh, a k-k-killer in the ring.”

Dammit. Jason realized that for his first fight they would most likely line him up against someone similar, either new to boxing or with just a few fights under his belt. As a last-minute replacement, though, he’d been bumped up to a high caliber of fighter. If people had paid to see Maxie Rosenbloom fight, that had to mean that the guy was no novice at boxing.

“Oh, sorry, F-f-father Jason.” Franklin realized he’d slipped up and called Jason’s opponent a “killer,” which was not a confidence builder. “I’ve seen you train; I’m sure he’s got n-n-nothing on you.”

Jason parked the car in the back and went to the back door. Franklin insisted on carrying his duffel for him. A man sat on a metal chair in the doorway, smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke out into the parking lot.

“I’m Jason Whitlock, and this is my corner man.” Jason started to pass, but the man kicked his foot across the doorway and rested his shoe on the jamb.

“Whitlock…you ain’t fightin’ tonight. Sorry.” The man snapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette onto Jason’s shoes.

Jason needed to get in and get ready. “McCleary got sick, so Willie called me at the last minute.”

“I don’t know ‘bout that.” The man lifted his fedora to study Jason and Franklin.

“Larry, it’s okay, let ‘em in.” A chubby man in a pinstripe suit waved the doorman’s leg away with a gesture. “You Jason Whitlock?”

“Yes, sir.” Jason replied and prepared to enter the back room.

“Who’s he?” Willie cocked a suspicious eye at Franklin. “He looks like a skid rogue.”

Having looked up 1920s slang, Jason knew that a “skid rogue” was an untrustworthy bum. “I work at the St. Michael’s Shelter. Franklin here may be a little rough around the edges, but he’s been helping me with my training, and I trust him.”

“All right, come in. Lockers are on the right.” Willie jerked one fat thumb behind him.

When they reached the gym, Jason stripped and put on his athletic supporter and sweat shorts, then his socks and high-top shoes. Franklin began wrapping Jason’s hands, just as he’d done in training many times. Other boxers and their trainers were in the locker room with them, so Jason tried to make it look like he knew what he was doing.

“Here, Franklin, you put on my sweats.” Jason figured his corner man shouldn’t look like he’d just swilled a bottle of Night Train.

Willie came back into the gym and tossed Jason a roll of cloth tape.

“Thanks,” Jason said as he caught it. After Willie left, Jason turned to one of the trainers beside them. “Excuse me, can you help me with this?”

The trainer looked at Jason and Franklin curiously. “Where in the hell did you guys come from? You look like a couple of palookas who just hopped the train.”

“I’m Jason Whitlock, of the St. Michael’s Shelter, and this is my corner man Franklin. This is my first fight.”

“Here,” the trainer said, taking the tape from Jason. “You wrap this over your handwraps to tighten them up, so nothing comes loose.”

The man worked rapidly, placing little lumps of tape between Jason’s knuckles, then sealing them with tape. “So who are you fighting tonight?”

“Maxie Rosenbloom,” Jason replied, watching the man work.

The trainer’s lips suddenly tightened, and he stopped his work to look up at Jason. “Look, just because you lose your first match, it doesn’t mean your career is over.” He then resumed his work and wrapped Jason’s wrists. “The only problem is a lot of guys get knocked out or end up with a mug that’s a swollen, bloody mess after the fight, so they get gun shy. Don’t let that happen to you.”

The trainer reached over to borrow a pair of scissors to cut off the ends of the cloth tape. He then massaged Jason’s hands, squeezing tightly so that the tape compressed the wraps and everything held tight.

“Thanks,” Jason said, but asked himself, “When do I get a pep talk? I could sure as hell use one right now.”

Jason paced the room while waiting for his match. Franklin tried to be encouraging, but that didn’t keep Jason’s stomach from twisting.

Willie came into the locker room and nodded to Jason. “You’re up.”

Jason tried his best to look tough, clapping his gloves together as he strode toward the ring. It was a huge, chattering crowd. Cigarette smoke hung in the air as women strolled through the stands selling cigarettes, beers, and peanuts. “Go home!” someone yelled, which Jason could hear clearly because he received only the barest applause. Jason went up the steps and slipped through the ropes into the ring, where he danced, hopping light on his feet like a boxer, then shadow boxed briefly.

When his opponent came in from the other end of the ring, the crowd roared and broke into applause. Looking into the ringside seats, Jason saw a badger in a double-breasted suit, seated next to a gorgeous woman in a glittery dress. A gorilla mayor, a chimpanzee advisor, Jason supposed that a badger wouldn’t be out of place. He decided to ignore his opponent as though he were unconcerned and took hold of the ropes in his corner. He did a series of squats while Franklin looked nervously around him.

“G-g-got a lot of, um, eggs here,” Franklin observed, commenting on the many wealthy fans seated ringside.

The announcer climbed into the ring, seizing a bulky microphone that descended from the ceiling like a spider on its web. “In the red corner, fighting for the St. Michael’s Shelter in Hell’s Kitchen, weighing in at 169-and-a-half pounds, fighting his first professional bout, Jason, ‘The Fighting Father’ Whitlock!”

Jason held up his glove to acknowledge the applause, but there was none, with the exception of one tipsy man who must have mistaken him for his opponent.

“In the blue corner, from the lower east side, weighing in at 170 pounds, with a record of 27-0-1, with twenty-one wins by way of knockout, Maxie ‘The Ghetto Wizard’ Rosenbloom!”

The crowd screamed their approval, and Jason gulped at the man’s record. The referee drew the two fighters to the center of the ring, but Jason was so nervous, so badly rattled by Maxie’s facial expression of a pit bull about to seize a steak, that he didn’t hear the ref’s mumbled instructions. After the two combatants touched gloves, Jason went back to his corner and Franklin popped in his mouthpiece, but because Jason hadn’t boiled it to fit it yet, the mouthpiece bit his gums.

Jason kicked his feet, waiting for the bell. Because Jason didn’t have a robe, Franklin pulled off the towel that he wore over his shoulders.

“Don’t w-w-worry,” Franklin assured him. “It’s duck, uh, soup.”

The bell clanged and Jason met Maxie at the center of the ring. In short order, Jason’s face was peppered with jabs. He tried to regroup, but his opponent was relentless. Jason countered with his own jab, but Maxie easily slipped out of range. Jason tried to dance, but his opponent was much quicker on his feet, and threw rapid combinations that landed like hail, then hopped out of range.

Time in the ring was like dog years, only slower, especially when a boxer was taking shots to the face and body, like Jason was. He tried to move in on Maxie, but the man was quicker, and easily stepped to one side, or leaned back, before retaliating with a barrage of punches when Jason was off balance.

At last, Jason heard the clacking of the sticks, a signal that there were just ten seconds left in the round. “Almost there,” Jason told himself. “Just ten more seconds.”

Finally, the bell clanged, to Jason’s relief. He went back to his corner, but his stool wasn’t there. Jason gestured to his mouth. Franklin looked at him curiously, trying to figure out what he meant. Jason gestured again, and then Franklin suddenly realized he was supposed to take out Jason’s mouthpiece, something Jason couldn’t do with his gloves on.

“My stool!” Jason shouted.

Franklin grabbed Jason’s stool and tried to slip it through the ropes feet-first before he figured out that he needed to slip it through seat-first.

Jason dropped down onto the stool. His inability to even touch his opponent hurt worse than the beating he received. “Water!”

Franklin poured water from a bottle into Jason’s open mouth. Jason began rinsing his mouth and looked around him for the bucket. A boxer never drank water during a fight because it would result in horrendous stomach cramps, and it certainly wouldn’t be helpful if he got socked in the gut when he had a stomach full of water. He gestured with one glove to his mouth again, pointing to his bulging cheeks, but Franklin was slow to understand. Jason tried to make a gesture to indicate the round mouth of a bucket, but gestures are clumsy when you’re wearing sixteen-ounce gloves.

Seeing Jason look down at the bucket, Franklin grabbed the pail and held it so Jason could spit out his water, which was tinged red, not from punches, thank goodness, but from the mouthpiece cutting into his gums.

“Am I supp-p-posed to give you, um, advice?” Franklin asked.

“Yeah,” Jason huffed.

“Hit him m-m-more.”

Jason’s head dropped in disbelief. He saw the badger in the pinstripe suit laugh at him, exposing a mouth full of pointed teeth.

Franklin massaged his shoulders. “You’re doing, uh, great. You haven’t b-b-been knocked out yet.”

“Thanks, Franklin.” Jason winced when his corner man popped the mouthpiece back into his mouth.

The bell clanged again, and Jason skipped out to the center of the ring. Jason fought a little better now, and wasn’t so slow. It occurred to him that he hadn’t jumped rope before the match, because he was afraid of getting tired, especially because this last-minute match was extended to ten rounds instead of six. Not working up a sweat before the match resulted in Jason being cold and stiff, while Maxie had warmed up properly, so he was as fast as a mongoose.

Maxie jabbed rapidly, but Jason responded, and he was encouraged that he had landed his first punch of the fight. Jason moved to one side and hopped, throwing out the jab, and followed up with a straight left. His opponent danced back, then responded with a salvo.

Jason swung wildly but missed.

Someone was counting. “I can count in Spanish,” Jason thought. “Cinco, seis, siete…” Jason then had an idea, something familiar, like he should get up. He pulled on the ropes, but it was hard to grip them with his thick, bulky gloves. Eventually he stood, and the referee shook his hands. “He’s congratulating me, but for what?” Jason gained a few more seconds when Franklin shoved his mouthpiece back into his mouth.

“If you get hit in the body, you get hurt; if you get hit in the head, you die.” Jason recalled his grandfather’s words, and knew that he was in big trouble. He was in shape, but all of his conditioning had been knocked right out of him, and his tank was nearly empty. Maxie closed in, raining blows left and right, most of which struck Jason’s arms and raised gloves, but the punches batted his head around, and he felt his left knee buckle.

Jason had one punch left in him, and it was do or die. With whatever vestige of energy he could muster, he threw a rising left uppercut, a shovel uppercut, accompanied by a groan that spat out his mouthpiece.

He staggered, but Maxie was unfazed by the punch, and loaded up for a finishing blow, which was likely to land before Jason’s knee hit the canvas.